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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28702284">no vacancy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird'>casualbird</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ukatake wk 2021 [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Developing Relationship, Dream Sex, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, lo! despair! for there is only one bed!, the single weirdest conversation i have ever written</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:00:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,732</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28702284</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You’re sure,” he says, as flat as the bed’s battered pillows. Takeda gives him a thumbs-up, one of those bird-beak smiles.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“I don’t mind,” he says, cheerily. “It’s not as if we aren’t friends, Ukai-kun.”</i></p><p>  <i><i>Friends,</i> he says, like it’s nothing. Keishin heats, as sudden and uneven, as dizzy as the plate of a microwave.</i><br/>A small logistical mishap leaves one bed for Ukai and Takeda both. Ukai copes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Takeda Ittetsu/Ukai Keishin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ukatake wk 2021 [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092188</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>no vacancy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+friend+danny+digby">my friend danny digby</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi hi! if you think you've seen this fic before, it's because you have! i had it up for a short time last wednesday, but since last wednesday was kind of a travesty i took it down. nobody was in the mood for it, least of all me!</p><p>still, i really hope you enjoy this! i'm pretty proud of it myself!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been a long day of near misses by the time they make it to their hotel room.</p><p>Not admiring the purse of Takeda’s lips as he drove the bus, not flustering when he introduced him so sweetly to the opposing coach, not feeling whatever it was he felt when Takeda plucked a lint ball off his chest. </p><p>That and the boys were rowdy as ever, twelve shaken soda cans after a two-hour bus ride—there were going to be complaints from the hotel, probably, and Keishin would have to pretend to know what to do with them in the morning. </p><p>And <i>then</i> entertain them for the drive home, so they won’t sing campfire songs or mutiny, and this in turn requires focus that is jeopardized so long as Takeda is anywhere near him, particularly with the way his soft fingers curl around the steering wheel, and…</p><p>Suffice it to say, it is understandable that upon entering the hotel room Keishin straight-up does not notice it.</p><p>It? The lack of it? Either way, Takeda does, and he giggles behind the hand that’s not holding his overnight bag.</p><p>Keishin notices that. The softness of it, the way his laugh lines crinkle.</p><p>“Mmngnph?” he attempts, and then Takeda is gesturing, and, um.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>It’s a fine enough bed, if not the sort of thing Keishin would want to see under a blacklight. For one night, for the team’s budget, for the ache in his back—it’ll do.</p><p>The issue is that there is only one of it.</p><p>“Oh dear,” Takeda chitters. “Someone’s made a mistake.”</p><p>“No shit,” says Keishin, and then remembers that he’s not supposed to swear, and then decides he doesn’t give a damn.</p><p>“I’ll, uh. I’ll go see at the front desk—” he starts, but Takeda’s lips are pursing again, only it’s significantly less appealing when he’s pointing out into the parking lot at the flickering NO VACANCY sign.</p><p><i>NO VACANCY.</i> It mocks him, couldn’t do it better if it’d said YOU ARE TOO OLD/TIRED/GAY FOR THIS.</p><p>He is all of the above. He drops his backpack with a <i>whump,</i> resigns himself in record time to sleeping on the floor.</p><p>“You’re not taking the floor,” Takeda harrumphs, because he is possessed of a terrifying genius. Because he is hell-bent on using it to destroy everything Keishin has ever built for himself. Because he is, probably, somewhere behind all of that strident benevolence, evil.</p><p>Keishin doesn’t even want him to stop. It’s just—</p><p>“—Well, I’m not gonna let <i>you</i> sleep on the floor,” he counters, if only for his own sake. He’d never rest, not lying all princess-like on top of a mattress while Takeda’s spine smushed against downtrodden carpet.</p><p>Takeda just smiles, blithe and bright. “Thank you, Ukai-kun,“ he says, and it’s so warm even under all the day’s weariness and Keishin—Keishin really is too gay for this.</p><p>But what’s he gonna do, sleep in the van? Find another hotel, and leave Takeda alone with a dozen Lords of the Flies? Room with one of them himself?</p><p>Keishin is good at refusing things. He refuses all three of these options with aplomb.</p><p>This, of course, means that there is only one left.</p><p>He refuses again, this time to be the one who says it.</p><p>It’s a minute before Takeda does, but only because he’s trying <i>so</i> hard not to laugh.<br/>
“I suppose it’d be easiest for us to just share,” he says, “though I’m not sure which B-anime this situation comes out of.”</p><p>Keishin snickers, to hide the fact that if this is an anime, he is the target demographic. And also the opposite of the target demographic, because somehow this is feast-and-famine the best and worst thing ever to happen to him.</p><p>Takeda does that to him with some regularity. Makes him scald and freezer-burn, makes him whoop and holler and keep mum.</p><p>Jesus wept, he makes him so, so <i>stupid.</i></p><p>If Takeda has any inkling of this, he doesn’t say. He just shrugs smiling, unfolds the little luggage rack, roots around in his bag.</p><p>Keishin hasn’t got the presence of mind to hear the song Takeda sings to himself, but it’s an impromptu little ditty about where on earth his toothbrush could possibly have got to. Just as well that it goes utterly over his head, because it’d only make him moon.</p><p>He sighs.</p><p>“You’re sure,” he says, as flat as the bed’s battered pillows. Takeda gives him a thumbs-up, one of those bird-beak smiles.</p><p>“I don’t mind,” he says, cheerily. “It’s not as if we aren’t friends, Ukai-kun.”</p><p><i>Friends,</i> he says, like it’s nothing. Keishin heats, as sudden and uneven, as dizzy as the plate of a microwave.</p><p>But Takeda is right. They’re friends. Friends and colleagues, in unfortunate circumstances on a work trip. It’s the stuff of after-work-drink stories—Nekomata, he suspects, would get a real kick out of it.</p><p>Just so long as he and his awful heart and worse dick don’t go making it weird.</p>
<hr/><p><i>It’s not weird,</i> he tells himself, a mantra that won’t stick, like reading the same sentence over and over and over. <i>It’s not weird unless you make it weird, and you’re not going to make it weird because if you do make it weird your life is </i>over.</p><p>The shower turns off in the next room, then, and Keishin realizes he’s been perseverating on it for, like, ten minutes, fingers steepled on his knees.</p><p>He needs a cigarette. The NO SMOKING sign glares at him from the wall, though, an uncompromising mistress.</p><p>At the very least, the boys have been quiet. Well. Not <i>quiet—</i> their rooms are all banked together, and he can hear them giggling and swearing, can hear their footsteps clatter down the hall.</p><p>It’s just that Sawamura—Keishin hears him barking—seems to have it under control. Which is nice.</p><p>He tries to focus on the niceness of it until Takeda emerges from the bathroom, round cheeks petal-pink, hair towel-scruffed and dripping at the ends.</p><p>At least he’s dressed. Mostly. Keishin wants to know what the hell kind of eromanga Takeda thinks this is, walking out of there all warm and damp, all dressed-down in a stretched-out shirt, worn boxer briefs.</p><p>It’s made a little less disarming by the print on his underwear—Keishin doesn’t have the stones to look closely, but he thinks it’s little woodland creatures or something silly like that.</p><p>Okay, that’s a filthy lie. It’s worse this way, knowing that Takeda’s underwear is dumb. It’s so much worse.</p><p>Takeda just smiles his same little smile—like the swirl on an ice cream cone, somehow perfect every time—and perches cross-legged on the bed.</p><p>He’s not even that close. Keishin’s fingers knit anyway, upper lip stiffening.</p><p>“I don’t think I’ve ever used a more confusing shower in my life,“ chirps Takeda, as if this is all some grand adventure. “You’ve got to kind of give it a half-turn, but watch out, because it’s going to be freezing before you can get it to—”</p><p>Keishin nods meekly, because he is not listening. He is mapping the lay of Takeda’s old thin shirt, the way it molds to the soft edges of him, all of his smoothed-out corners. The widest bit of his arm, the curve of his chest, the neat little cinch of his waist.</p><p>He wonders if he’s ticklish there, because Takeda turns him into a ridiculous person.</p><p>This is on the whole a compliment. Still, he doesn’t say so because there’s no way in hell to make it sound like one, and also because Takeda is still talking, chittering away so pleasantly about the day’s practice match, asking after Keishin’s health.</p><p>“‘M fine,” he tells him, while making resolute eye contact, while thinking adamantly of diving drills, of the things at the back of his fridge.</p><p>“Well, don’t let me keep you,” Takeda says, “the shower’s all yours!”</p>
<hr/><p>Bless Keishin’s job for being so ruthlessly, viscerally exhausting—he hasn’t got the energy to get hard in the shower.</p><p>He’s not sure what he would have done if he had. Bang his head against the wall, maybe. Think of the crease between Takeda’s belly and thigh when he sat down, how soft it looked, what all he’d do to get his mouth on it.</p><p>Well. He thinks about that anyway. It just doesn’t get him anywhere.</p>
<hr/><p>Takeda’s already bedded down by the time he’s finished, propped up on pillows and squinting at a book. It almost makes it feel normal, like this is somewhere Keishin is welcome, something he’s seen before.</p><p>It also feels like a punch in the kidneys. A beautiful, wonderful uppercut right in the kidneys, because Takeda’s precious like this, glasses sitting all the way down his little nose.</p><p>“Did you figure out the thing with the—?” His voice is low, demure, as if he’s trying not to wake anyone. As if there aren’t nigh on fifteen brats down this hallway, doing their level best to sound like Times Square on New Year’s Eve.</p><p>“Yeah.” He softens himself to a light rasp, falling into step, and swears he can see Takeda smile.</p><p>Well. That doesn’t mean anything. He smiles all the time, the cheerful bastard.</p><p>And speak of bastardy—Takeda reaches out one hand, the one not holding his book open, pats the side of the bed he’s decided is Keishin’s.</p><p>“We’ve got a big day tomorrow,” he reminds him, as if they are a unit. Keishin has to remind himself that they are—just not in the way he always thinks about.</p><p>And he’s right. They have got a big day.</p><p>And if he stands here with his bare face hanging out any longer, he’s going to look stupid. Or gay. Or both.</p><p>God, he’s both.</p><p>He beds down gingerly, lying rigid at the far edge. He slips, a little, into the mattress’ sag, but it’s a wide enough berth.</p><p>He’s fine. He’ll be fine.</p><p>The cheap sheets rasp at his nose, laden with the smell of chlorine bleach.</p><p>Keishin thinks of cold-chromed, sterile things.</p><p>Takeda won’t let him.</p><p>“I really don’t mind sharing,” he says, in that soft eiderdown voice of his. There’s a sleepover ring to it, something chipper and maybe seven years old, and Keishin ducks into the pillow to hide his blush.</p><p>“It reminds me of <i>A Christmas Carol,</i> you know? With all the kids tucked up in one bed.”</p><p>Keishin takes him at his word, having never, ever read <i>A Christmas Carol.</i> “Mhm,” he says, softly, somehow still intrigued. He’s a flickering tea light, Takeda, and Keishin is coming to the realization that he’d listen to that voice read a math textbook, a death ledger.</p><p>“You know, Ukai-kun, I just found this out, but—you know Christmas pudding?”</p><p>His brow furrows deep like a field. “Can’t say I do.”</p><p>“It’s a traditional English thing,” says Takeda, breezily, as if there is no reason why he oughtn’t be talking about Christmas pudding. And, upon a moment’s reflection, there isn’t, even if it is fucking July. “It’s got raisins and suet and brandy—like a cake, but you boil it?”</p><p>His brow furrows a little deeper. He’s got no idea what the hell suet is.</p><p>“Sensei,” he grumbles, “that’s weird.”</p><p>Takeda is only sanguine in response—all “isn’t it? But the really weird thing is that you don’t make it the day of. You make it a <i>month</i> in advance, and then hang it up in your kitchen, and then when it’s Christmastime you boil it again and then you <i>set it on fire</i> and serve it, and Ukai-kun, isn’t that cool?”</p><p>“You… hang it up?”</p><p>“Yep. Wrapped in a cloth.”</p><p>“What the fuck,” mutters Keishin, and jolts chilling to apologize—but Takeda just laughs, snickering behind his hand.</p><p>“Right? I don’t know. I heard about it on a podcast and I thought it was an interesting factoid—was it too weird?”</p><p><i>Yes,</i> Keishin thinks, <i>yes, that is the weirdest thing anyone has ever told me, and now I have to know it for the rest of my life.</i></p><p>And then, pursuant to and well in spite of that, <i>you are the wildest son of a bitch I have ever met. And also the cutest, and probably the best.</i></p><p>So he shakes his head, tells him at a rasp that it’s fine. That it’s cool.</p><p>And it is, and he means it, and when he rolls over to rest, he finds the tension’s nearly gone.</p>
<hr/><p>Nearly. And it comes back. Slowly, with the calm shuffle of Takeda’s breath, with the way his heat creeps to Keishin’s side under the covers, the little fluttering yawn before he says goodnight.</p><p>That he says it, too, all soft before flicking off the light. Like it’s every night. Like Keishin is supposed to be next to him.</p><p>Like he’s supposed to be closer, not cowering stiff into the farthest slice of bed he can, where the mattress’ edge lies rigid under his back. Where the duvet barely covers him because Takeda’s something of a blanket hog.</p><p>He doesn’t even mind it—not with the sweet satisfied sounds Takeda makes, situating, snuggling into place.</p><p>Rather despite himself, Keishin finds that the full force of his brainpower has been pressed into service wondering how he might hear those sounds again.</p><p>He sighs, and chews his cheek, and thinks of volleyball. The really dry stuff, too—Karasuno’s equipment ledger, the kind of budgetary concerns he only pretended to care about so that Takeda would take the time to explain them.</p><p>Okay, he kind of cared. </p><p>He really cared. But this was secondary to the moment it stole him in the staff room, peering at a spreadsheet over Takeda’s soft shoulder…</p><p>…Those shoulders were drawn up, now, about the roundness of his jaw. All cozy, like a bird with fluffed-up feathers, and <i>whatever happened to thinking about spreadsheets?</i></p><p>Spreadsheets, and the way Takeda’s short fingers pointed to them, and what they’d feel like in his mouth, petting at his tongue.</p><p>
  <i>Spreadsheets.</i>
</p><p>Spreadsheets, and how close they were, how warm Takeda felt while they were looking at them. How warm he feels now, lying within reach, nestled down so comfortably.</p><p>God, what Keishin wouldn’t give to make him <i>comfortable.</i></p><p>That is. Assuming Takeda feels the same unease that Keishin does, that grind of the teeth, slithering of core muscles, the thrum of a staggering pulse. Which is a stupid idea, because Takeda is a <i>real adult</i> who <i>has his shit together.</i></p><p>But if he did. If those gentle sounds of his were really things that wanted, if his tired heart, too, was settling in for third shift, if he could…</p><p>Well.</p><p>Keishin’s fingers curl under the blankets, blunt nails digging at the heel of his hand. His teeth grind so tight he swears Takeda can hear them, like the swan song of a cheap used car, and there’s not a damn thing he can do to pretend he doesn’t want to dive under these bleach-smelling sheets, to take Takeda’s thick waist in his hands, to mouth his neck and twist his wrist into those boxer briefs and do <i>anything Takeda tells him.</i></p><p>He isn’t sure what, exactly—he knows Takeda’s trans, and knows that he doesn’t know enough to really understand what he’s working with. What he wishes he was working with.</p><p>Keishin had looked it up, though, the night Takeda told him. He thinks of the poorly-lit medical photos he saw then, of pale chests underscored by bold ruddy lines, marks of courage and persistence. His fingers twitch, on the relentless need to trace them. Thinks of soft stretch-marked hips, and whatever might be between them, how warm he’d be against his palm.</p><p>There’d be a learning curve, of course, but Keishin aches to take it when he thinks of the way Takeda’s fingers would feel in his hair, the way he’d sound crooning all the answers in his ear.</p><p><i>Spreadsheets,</i> he tells himself, <i>spreadsheets,</i> but he knows it isn’t any use.</p><p>He throbs, deep and thick like the pour of honey, still somehow not quite hard. It doesn’t matter, he wouldn’t anyway.</p><p>No. He is a normal coworker having normal feelings on a normal work trip, which has gone slightly wrong in a normal way, and he is not going to make it any worse.</p><p>He straightens his spine, ties up his jaw.</p><p>Sleeps.</p>
<hr/><p>Fitfully.</p>
<hr/><p>And he <i>dreams.</i></p><p>First it’s the same old stumble, all brush-edged shapes and wet colors. There’s a faraway panic, like the scuffling of being late for work, and then—</p><p>—And then Takeda is there. Keishin can’t see him, can’t tell how he knows but for the plush of the body at his back, the voice that coos careful in his ear. The fingertips, which he’s never felt before but has catalogued somehow, down to the fingerprints that strum his collarbones.</p><p>And then Keishin turns, and it isn’t Takeda at all—it’s the handsome four AM weatherman, the one Keishin lusts after over his slapdash breakfasts, and he’s calling for rain and rain and rain.<br/>
Not the cleansing sort, either. The kind that drags its feet, settles thick over the world like a lead apron. Somehow, the forecast makes this very clear.</p><p>He’s in the shop, after that, and he spends a long time dusting shelves before Takeda is back, pressing him up against the hum of the beer fridge, breath hot and honest on his throat.</p><p>He talks—he talks a lot, but Keishin doesn’t hear. Just cleaves to him, and then in the next breath his thighs are hemming in those hips, pressing him in tighter, and just as quick as that it’s the weatherman again, and after a split second of that he’s in Karasuno’s gym, and it’s that day in second year when he chipped a tooth on a face receive and Sato, the middle blocker he so loved, is laughing, laughing.</p>
<hr/><p>And then he is awake.</p><p>The light is pale through dusty curtains—it must be just past dawn. His body never lets him sleep much longer, not even when he hasn’t got a shift.</p><p>Well. He supposes he does, that he’s been <i>on shift</i> for the past eighteen hours, and if that doesn’t make him feel worse he doesn’t know what will.</p><p>Keishin grunts, shuffles in the sheets. Just then, Takeda murmurs something feathery and thin—Keishin turns to see if he’s awoken, but he hasn’t—just squinted shut eyes, crinkled his nose all dreamy.</p><p>It would be such a sight—festival fireworks, Mt. Fuji shouldering above the mist—if it was something Keishin was meant to see.</p><p>Takeda tumbles in his sleep, sealing his warm arm, his calf, his soft hip to Keishin’s.<br/>
He’d already felt hazy, heavy.</p><p>Keishin creeps away, back to the cool firm edge of the bed, and does not move. Does not squirm, does not sigh, does not rub his thighs together, doesn’t try to settle around the ache.<br/>
Just lies there for a while, stiff like an old wound.</p><p>After a little while, he swears he can hear Takeda speak—just a little mumble, something gentle and dim. Something that sounds almost as if it was words, but not quite.</p><p>It’d be stupid to say something, so obviously Keishin does.</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>Takeda stirs sleep-soft, tilts up his muzzy head. “Mm? Oh--I said you don’t need to worry about it.”</p><p>Keishin’s brow crinkles, head cocking deep against the pillow. “Somethin’ wrong?”</p><p>A little sigh, then, like the quiet breeze of dawn. Keishin’s mind scrabbles—it wants to know what he’s done, if he’s said something, if he’s just been giving off too much of a <i>vibe,</i> something twist-curved and obtrusive, not near private enough.</p><p>It also just wants to watch him. To hear what he says, and what he doesn’t, and to watch the calm ripple on his face. The way he catches a little yawn between his teeth, nuzzles down into the duvet even now.</p><p>“Not at all,” says Takeda, and it’s dense like gold, heavy for the smallness of it. It feels true.</p><p>“I want to make sure you know—that you’re okay. That you haven’t made me uncomfortable.”</p><p>“That—Ukai-kun, excuse me, but… I’m fond of you.”</p><p>It spills from him so easily, in the tone of a precept, a fact accepted somewhere by committee, laid in black and white on fine soft paper.</p><p>Taught to him, gently.</p><p>Another sigh—this time it’s tidal, and it belongs to Keishin. His ribs uncurl from his breastbone, a tender hand draws away the leaden blanket</p><p>“And it’s not the end of the world if you touch me.”</p><p>Takeda’s tone is gossamer-light, the cool side of a pillow. Still, Keishin flares with it.</p><p>It’s a softer thing, though, like a hearth, like the old heating pad that’s borne him through so many aches and strains.</p><p>It feels the same when Takeda’s warm fingertips come to rest on his shoulder, tiny palm forming to his broad angle.</p><p>Keishin wants to ask him what he means, more than anything. More than he wants to breathe again, or to reach for him—to knit their fingers, to clutch Takeda close.</p><p>He doesn’t, though, because Takeda’s decided, in that fey little way of his, that it isn’t quite the time.</p><p>“Get some rest, Ukai-kun,” he urges, and there’s a weight in that, too. Something just of Takeda’s, that thing that knows what’s best and won’t take no.</p><p>It feels just as warm, obeying him.</p>
<hr/><p>When they sleep, it’s only for a waning hour. Still Keishin wakes feeling younger, lighter—even though the sunlight glares, even though Takeda’s hand, Takeda’s warmth has left him. Even though he’s up and puttering around, even though he won’t stop with that humming.</p><p>Well. It’s not bad, really.</p><p>Keishin might say he likes it.</p><p>Might even say he loves it.</p><p>Might even love the clangor of the boys down the hallway, cackling and whooping and living their lives so wholehearted and easy.</p><p>Of course, <i>might.</i> They will lay him in his grave, he knows, with the sheer coordinated boyness of them.</p><p>But.</p><p>He’s had his rest, however brief, and he has Takeda’s toothpaste smile, Takeda’s strange soft-given <i>blessing,</i> and there’s a game to be had, and the promise of sleep on the bus home, of <i>figuring this out,</i> and for the moment, it’s enough.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi hi hi hi hiiiiii!!!! thank you so much for reading! i hope you liked it as much as i liked writing it, which was a lot!! ukai is A Whole Mess and i do so delight in torturing him.</p><p>my chubby takeda agenda really jumps out in this fic and i'm never going to apologize for it. he somft.</p><p>the thing about christmas pudding is totally true. if i have to know it, then ukai has to know it, and you all have to know it too.</p><p>let me know what you thought of this fic, and come hang out with me on <a href="https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles">twitter (18+)</a> if you like--i'm always looking for more hq pals!</p><p>much love!!!<br/>-mye</p></blockquote></div></div>
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